


fool that i am

by spreadthighs



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Daddy Kink, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spreadthighs/pseuds/spreadthighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times someone forgot nico's birthday and 1 time someone remembered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fool that i am

**01.**

Your mother is the one who picks you up after school. Not formula one double world champion Mika Hakkinen in a sleek new Mercedes-Benz with the driver's window wound down.

'Nico!' Your head whips up sharply at the familiar voice, and you stare, heart in your mouth as the Mercedes rolls to a stop in front of you. Mika sticks his head out of the window and he is smiling and his eyes crinkle upwards.

'Uncle Mika,' you say, and the words feel strange on your tongue.

(Mostly because in your late night fantasies when you cannot sleep and you have one hand wrapped around your cock as you jerk off sometimes it's _Mika_ and sometimes nothing but _god fuck me harder_ and sometimes you slip and you call him _daddy_ in your head and it always leaves you feeling nothing but mortification and now that it has come to this, your cheeks flush as the memory finds its way into your consciousness, unbidden. See you like him, you always have, from a childish sort of admiration that screamed _I want to be like you when I grow up, I want to_ be _you when I grow up_ to realising that seeing his face made your heart race and oh, how _childish_ and perfectly stupid.)

'Your mother has something to attend to,' Mika says as you climb into his car, all too conscious of how you arrange your limbs when you are sitting in the passenger seat.

'Oh,' you say. There is nothing else that you _can_ say as he smiles at you again before he steps on the accelerator — _notice me look my way I'm not a child any more today I turn_ sixteen _and if you'd let me bend over and suck you off right now while you drive I totally would_ — yeah right, no goddamn point when he grins with approval when you call him _Uncle Mika_.

He enquires about your life and you talk, filling the silence with stories about your life and your Grand Plans to get a seat in formula one and he smiles and it is that same look that you get sometimes from your father and you hate that because that is the last thing you want from Mika. But you hold your tongue, god what could he ever want from a sixteen year old boy like you anyway, and he praises you when you talk about your grades and how well you are progressing in your racecraft. You bask in the glow of it, of course. Better than nothing, you will take whatever you can get.

Yet throughout the journey Mika's replies are short, in accented English, almost as if he is afraid of embarrassing himself with a mispronounced word or a misplaced phrase. You wonder how it would have been like if you could speak Finnish, you watch as your father and Mika go at each other with rough words in a language you do not understand but you can tell what they are saying because at the very least, you can pick up _tone_. What if your father had not thought that Finnish would not be useful, what if he had bothered to teach you, and what if you had bugged him enough to teach you? Maybe things would not be so awkward, maybe you would have a shot at something, whatever that is, who knows.

The car rolls to a stop outside the flat your family has in Monaco.

'You're not coming up?' you ask, frowning.

'No,' Mika says. He reaches into the glove compartment of the car, and pulls out a manila envelope, handing it to you. 'Pass this to your father for me.'

You accept the envelope, mouth dry. You do not move away from the car, and Mika frowns.

'Did you forget something?'

You look at him, and you swallow hard. _You're the one who's forgetting, not me_ , you think. _It's my birthday today. You come around all the time you've helped me in my racing career so far you_ care _for me, don't you? Don't I matter to you?_

The silence stretches out, and you swallow hard. 'No,' you say finally, and he smiles again.

'Send your father my regards,' Mika says.

It's the end of the conversation. You smile, taut, and then you slam the door shut behind you.

When you ring the doorbell, the back of your palm is wet with your tears.

**02.**

You turn over instinctively when you realise that Mark has gotten out of bed. He pulls on his clothes — boxers and jeans and a faded Williams shirt that he should have known better than to wear here. What if someone had seen him?

'You're not staying?' you ask. The words are out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, and the look Mark gives you makes you regret it immediately. You had shifted so that you could sit up, and the duvet pools around your waist, but now all you want to do is curl up and hide beneath it.

'Is there an occasion to?' Mark asks, looking at you like you have gone quite mad. And he is right, of course. Mark _never_ stays. What were you expecting?

'No,' you say, voice a bare whisper. 'Close the door behind you when you go,' you add, almost as an afterthought.

He lingers at the door. 'Goodnight, Nico,' he says. Then he is gone, slipping out into the night back to wherever he belongs.

He had told you right at the beginning that he was going to ruin you. You were too pretty too young too innocent _Frank Williams' golden boy_ and he had snarled, all teeth when you had cornered him and you had laughed, pulling him into a kiss that had left him breathless and you had said you were not going to lose to an old geezer like him. So it began, trading lingering touches and sexual favours and oh, now you are here, alone in a hotel room in Montreal and your thighs are sticky and disgusting after Mark had fucked you into the mattress. You get to the mini bar, and there is, miraculously, a small bottle of Cristal in there.

'Happy birthday,' you say to yourself, and you drink.

You tell yourself that the wetness on your skin is champagne.

**03.**

One year on after the mess in Singapore and Nelson has moved on. He is somewhere in America now, racing in NASCAR. Far away from formula one. Far away from you.

'He's not going to call,' you say. You sit with Adrian on the piano bench in Adrian's flat, where you are waiting out for Nurburgring. You do not want to go back to Monaco this year, and Adrian had taken you in wordlessly when you had shown up at his door. 'He doesn't want anything to do with formula one any more. Least of all me,' you slur in German, even though this is your second bottle of vodka and you have eaten your way through half a birthday cake as viciously as you could but in any case, you are really, _really_ not drunk enough for this shit.

'Don't say that,' Adrian murmurs, chiding you and you snort.

'Play for me again,' you say, taking him by his wrist and dropping his hand most unceremoniously on the keyboard. 'Come on.'

He chuckles, soft. 'What do you want to hear?'

'You choose,' you say, leaning against his arm even though you know he hates it when you do and he has to play the piano. But tonight he does not make a noise of protest, and you take it for what it is. 'You always know what to play.'

Morning comes. Nelson does not call.

**04.**

Michael lies next to you, looking up at the ceiling. 'There's something I seem to be forgetting,' he muses. In German, of course. Always in German between the two of you, unless you are in public and subtitles are necessary for the rest of the world.

You hum, but you do not turn around. You are used to this. Michael is not someone important, if anything, sometimes you close your eyes and you think of him as a replacement for Mika and now this. The irony.

'Would it have anything to do with you, by chance?' he asks.

This time you turn, propping yourself up with your elbows. Your smile is icy, but it is lost on Michael, who has his eyes closed now. 'Why would it?'

'Funny, I had a feeling it was something to do with you.'

'Go to sleep,' you say. You curl up against him. Habit, you tell yourself. You do not feel anything more for him. It is just sex. The end.

He wraps an arm around you. 'Goodnight, Nico,' he murmurs.

There is nothing to be miserable about. Just another birthday spent with someone who does not give a fuck.

**05.**

There is a time and place for everything, you suppose, and you have gotten it all wrong at this point.

See, time and time again, you get sucked into the same vicious cycle — falling for people you cannot have, sleeping with people who clearly do not give a shit about you to fill that void and you tell yourself that really, it is okay even if all they want is your body because at least that is something that will keep them coming back for more but god, it is not working.

You know that Toto is married. Sometimes when you are out there in the paddock talking to Susie and she laughs and talks about something silly Toto had said the other day you feel a stab of guilt, but you brush that aside eventually, telling yourself that Toto still adores only her and what you have with him is just sex, nothing more.

Because as much as you would like to think that Toto _does_ care, with his kisses soft and touch reverent like he is so fucking afraid to break you in bed, you know that in the paddock in the garage out there on track he would throw you under the bus if need be.

And here you are now, in the Mercedes garage, and all you want is for him to come over tonight because as stupid as it sounds, you would want to spend your birthday with him. Just for a few hours, because Susie would ask questions if Toto was gone for too long. But you hold your tongue, and you try not to look too crestfallen (no mean feat for you even though you have had years of practice) when he says no, he has something to settle with Lewis' side of the garage.

Ah, yes. _Lewis_.

Your mechanics bring out cake for you later, and they sing you a birthday song at the top of their voices and by then everyone else knows what is going on, well wishers make their way over to you and you laugh after you blow out the candles, taking extra care to avoid having your face smashed into a perfectly good cake. Georg and Dan are smiling at you and you pull them into a hug — you really do not have to ask to know who planned this.

There is a lone figure lingering by the side as the cake is distributed. You swallow hard, and then you make your way over. 'Hey,' you say. 'Did you get a slice of cake?'

'I did,' Toto says, thrusting the plate of cake he has out at you. He avoids your gaze though, and you know it for what it is — guilt. 'Happy birthday.'

'Thanks,' you say. It comes out too quickly, like your mouth is on autopilot, and Toto winces.

'Listen, about tonight-'

'It's okay, really,' you cut him off. 'Go tend to Lewis. It's more important, isn't it? For the team.'

Toto stares at you, and you can see it all in his eyes. 'I see,' he says thickly.

You stay like this, quiet for a few moments. 'Well, I'll be going back then,' you say, turning to leave.

'I'm sorry I forgot,' Toto says belatedly, voice quiet.

'It's okay,' you answer. 'You're not the only one anyway.'

**+1**

You wake up with a start. Sunlight filters through the blinds, and you peer blearily at the bedside clock. It is no wonder that the alarm has not gone off — after all, it is only seven thirty in the morning.

The bed, however, is empty beside you, much to your surprise. You rub at your eyes, getting out of the bedroom, only to be greeted with the lovely scent of breakfast cooking.

Jenson is in the kitchen, and he is wearing _your_ turquoise apron.

'Morning,' you say, voice still husky with sleep.

Jenson turns, surprised. 'Morning, princess,' he says, chuckling when you wrinkle your nose at him. Jenson and his dumb nicknames for you. They had been annoying at first, but now they have grown on you, and you would not have it any other way. 'Did I wake you?'

You shake your head, and you walk over from your place by the countertop to look at what Jenson is cooking.

'What's this for?' you ask, swiping a piece of bacon from one of the plates. Jenson eyes the piece of bacon pointedly, and you make a show out of chewing on it, which cracks him up.

'For you,' he says, grinning as he places a sunny side up egg on one of the plates. You cock your head to one side, puzzled and he puts down the spatula, switching off the induction cooker. He pulls you into a hug, saying 'Happy birthday, Nico.' Then he kisses you on your nose before saying 'Love you.'

When he pulls away his grin is wide, admiring his handiwork. Your cheeks are flushed and flustered, you look for the right words to say and his eyes flicker down to that mark on your neck peeking out from under your t-shirt, from the night before when he had sucked a bruise into your skin.

'Thank you,' you say, voice shaky, and then you are hugging him, burying your face where his neck meets his shoulder. He makes a pleased sort of noise as he wraps his arms around you, and you smile. 'Love you too.'

**Author's Note:**

> happy ~~belated~~ birthday, my love.


End file.
